


The Weight of All Things

by lizdarcy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Former Gladiator!Derek, Fugitives, Gladiators, M/M, Roman AU, Slaves, Slow Burn, allusions to rape, eventual BAMF!Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizdarcy/pseuds/lizdarcy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I am Theodericus. Derek. I do not train soft hands,” the man declared, turning back to his work and away from Ascendaeus. </i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>“Please, he’ll kill her,” the boy begged.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Derek, a Germanic slave turned Gladiator, became an overnight sensation in the arena, battling hard to win his freedom. Now working as a blacksmith, he is sought out to train a young boy how to fight against the corrupt Roman politicians who endanger his family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The clanging of metal on metal, the rough yelling of loud voices and the harsh, acrid black of the furnace’s smoke hit the boy’s senses like a hammer. His nose wrinkled and his feet hesitated. The guild was a hive of activity men darting here and there, carrying large urns or bringing horses through dragging metal scraps. He was not a baby, he told himself. Babies couldn’t save their mothers. He ducked around the Bronze cast of Minerva and entered the smoky hall, swallowing down his trepidation.

A cloak covered his head and small shoulders, but the determination in them was clear. It bellied the softness of his hands and pristine state of his sandals. His arms and legs were skinny with youth, but his hands and feet were large. He darted through the guild past furnaces and hammers, and workbenches. He was looking for the one they whispered about on street corners after dark. The one he remembered watching once, through the blurry eyes of a toddler. Lupus de Nocte. The Wolf of the Night. He could remember the gasps of shock and cheers of the arena. But the face was hazy. He’d find him, he had to find him. 

“Ai! You there, out of the way!” The boy yelped and ducked as two men lifted a brazier over his head. Spinning around, eyes wide, he took a deep breath and steeled himself. 

“I look for Theodericus,” he declared, the command in his voice lost as he choked on smoke. 

“You and everyone else,” a rough voice chided. The accent was thick, harsh. The boy spun around, searching for the source, stopping at a man bent over a red-hot sword, swinging away with a hammer. Smoke and the low, flickering light of the oil lamps obscured his face from view.

“You know him?” he asked, brows lowered in suspicion. 

“Aye, I know him. Who is asking?” The accent was so thick the boy could hardly make it out. 

“I am. Ascendaeus,” he said, moving closer. He had almost given his full name. That would give away his station, he thought nervously, as if the cloak hadn't already. 

“Stigel. Stiles.” The man huffed, muscles glistening with a sheen of sweat, as he continued to pound out the iron. 

“I don’t understand. You speak nonsense,” Ascendaeus said, wondering how he could find Theodericus, with men like this blocking his way. He didn't need riddles, he needed to find him. Now, so he could learn how to protect his mother. How to fight like a gladiator. How to win. 

“Your name. It means ‘one who rises.’ In my language, we would call you Stigel. Or Stiles. You will climb in your life, like the steps over the highest hill. Your name says so.”

Ascendaeus blinked. Stiles. It sounded odd on his tongue, but he liked it. Stiles. 

“Who are you?” He asked curiously, slinking closer to the man. Now that he could see, the man was young, not as old as his voice made him sound. Probably eight and ten years, no more than five and twenty. Soot stained his face, as sweat dripped down his forehead and neck, the cords in his neck straining.

“I am a blacksmith,” he muttered. “And you are a pest.” Ascendaeus bristled, and puffed up his chest. 

“I am no pest! I am not a child, either. I come to learn, to train! I will learn to wield a sword, and slay my enemies. I’ll be a finer soldier than the best of Rome. I’ll fight better than the gladiators!” He exclaimed. The man sighed, and paused, wiping his forehead of sweat, before turning to look closer at the boy.

“You are a child, not a soldier. Give me your hand, boy.” Stiles shot out his hand, eager to please this strangely provocative man; eager to prove he’d be the man his family needed. The man grabbed his hand roughly, smoothing his fingers over the boy’s palm, before scoffing.

“You’re no sword bearer. You’ve never wielded a weapon in your life.” The boy’s eyes dropped to the floor, and ripped his hand away. In his village, boys of Stiles’ age would already be using a sword as if it was a part of their arm. His people were warriors, their skin tough and hardened with battle. The boy’s hands were pampered, softer than a babe’s. A patrician.

“I am Theodericus. Derek. I do not train soft hands,” the man declared, turning back to his work and away from Ascendaeus. The boy’s heart dropped in his chest. No! He needed to learn. Who else could protect his mother?

“You have to! I have to protect my mother. You don’t know what he’s doing to her! Please! I’ll work, I’ll learn! I promise! I have to beat him!” 

Derek abruptly turned around. “Your mother?” He asked quietly.

“Please, he’ll kill her,” the boy begged. Derek stared at him for a long moment, cursing the gods for throwing the boy his way. One more problem he didn’t need. He chewed his cheek for a minute before deciding. 

“I’ll train you when your hands are callused. You need muscle on your arms, strength in your legs, to handle a sword. Come here tomorrow morning, you’ll work as my striker. Be here by the first hour.” Ascendaeus was already nodding, his eyes wide. 

“Well, get, boy. You’re not doing anything here, besides getting in my way.” He watched as the boy, still nodding vigorously, backed away.

“Thank you! You won’t regret it!” Aye, he would. Stiles, clever contraptions that allowed only a man to climb a path, not animals. This boy, he would be sly. His emotions played over his face like a tableau, but he would learn to hide them. He’d have to, or more than his mother would be at stake. He whistled to one of the young apprentices, just on his way out the door. 

“Five denarii for you to follow that boy home. Don’t let anyone see you. I’ll be here.”

_“Si, Peregrinus.”_

Derek watched the boys disappear around the corner, and bent back over his work. Darkness was approaching, work would be called soon, but he had no intentions of leaving. Work had to be finished. Foreigner or not, his work sold. After all, it wasn’t like he had anything left to live for. 

 

 

“Scott! Scott!!” Ascendaeus sprinted into the courtyard, chickens scattering over the red cobblestones. Light streamed through the laundry hanging across the atrium, the boy's voice echoing off the walls as he ran through drapes of fabric and straight into a thin brunette slave, stringing up the wet cloth. It was Malamhìn, Scott’s mother.

“Ach, you’re so loud, Ascendaeus. It’s nae playtime, go on! It’s time for bed, laddie.”

“Sorry, Molly, but I gotta find Scott, I’ve gotta find him now!”

“Ascendaeus, ‘is name’s nae Scott, ‘Tis Scotaidh,” she blustered at him, pulling sheets off the line into her arms and safely out of harm’s way. Of course, Stiles was the harm. 

“That’s what I said. Scotty,” he said, finally coming to a halt, effectively confused. No matter how many times they had this argument, he never heard a difference. 

“Ach, go on, get you. He’ll be in your quarters, making your bedding up. I’ll be up in the blink of an eye, and don’ you think I’ll nae know if you pretend to sleep.”

“Yes, Molly.” Scott’s mother was terrifying. “And it’s Stiles. Call me Stiles now!” He yelled over his shoulder.

She shook her head as he ran off. 

“Wee laddie ‘tis nae right in the head.”

 

 

“Scott!”

“What? What?! I’m righ’ here, Ascendaeus, what is it?” Scott was sitting on the mattress; blankets and quilts around his waist as he tied them together, tongue sticking between his teeth. Ascendaeus ran through the room and jumped up on the bed, speaking fast in an excited whisper. 

“I found him, Lupus de Nocte! I found Theodericus! Well, Derek, he said he likes to be called. He called me Stiles and said I’d climb things. You wouldn’t believe how huge he is; he’s like a titan. And he was making a sword; he’ll probably use it to chop off a tiger’s head when he joins the games again. He said my hand’s are too soft or something, but we found him. He’ll help us. He said he’d teach me to fight, Scott!” Scott watched with wide eyes trying to follow his friend. They had come up with the elaborate plan with the type of fervor only nine-year-olds could accomplish. It had taken weeks to come up with the information about how to find Derek. If Molly found out what he had had Scott do, she’d string him up by his toes. But he had too. It was for his mother

The excitement of the night didn’t fool Stiles. Scott treated this like a game, so Ascendaeus did, too. He played up the drama of it, the aspects of winning, fighting the enemy. That way Scott would play along. He didn’t know what was at stake. He didn’t know Ascendaeus would put his life on the line when the time came. He didn’t know that it wasn’t a game at all.

“You found him? He’s really going tae teach you? You’ll be able to join the games?”

Ascendaeus nodded vigorously. That was what he told Scott, he just wanted to join the gladiator games. Every boy in Rome wanted to be a famous gladiator, fighting for the Emperor. Not Ascendaeus. No. Not Stiles. 

Stiles was going to kill him. 

 

 

“Villa Domitius, _Peregrinus.”_

Derek flipped the boy his denarii, wiping off his hands with a rag. Villa Domitius, home of Marcus Domitius, Magnus, legatus of the Imperial Legion. Marcus Domitius, the Great. Derek had faced him seen him in battle once, long ago. A fierce warrior, a fierce leader.

Of course the family was being threatened. Power was a game in Rome, one you had to be present for to partake in. All the military victories in the world wouldn't matter if you didn't come home to claim them. He cursed and whipped the rag aside. The story was evolving much too rapidly for his taste. A man is his position had to tread carefully, or he’d wake up with a dagger in his side, or find himself in the arena once more. He couldn’t afford to help doomed little boys protect their mothers. No one had bothered helping him. 

He wiped soot from his brow once more and made to leave. Someone had to watch the kid’s back. Stiles' back. 

He laughed once and sighed, blowing out the last lantern. He had known the moment he had spoken his name the boy would be trouble.

 

 

“Ascendaeus, slow down, my silly boy, you’ll choke on your bread. Why in the heavens are you in such a hurry?” 

Stiles looked up at his mother, pretending not to notice the bruise above her eye or the slight limp in her gait as she entered the room, seating herself across from him.

“I have to be at the market. There’ll be a fight this afternoon, for Senator Gaius Aurelius’ death. I hear there would be ten gladiators in all,” he commented, having thought up his excuse late last night. It was true. There would be a fight. He just wouldn’t be there to watch it. He dipped his roll in honey, and shoved it in his mouth. He couldn’t afford to be late. Derek had to take him seriously. 

“You now how I detest those shows, Ascendaeus. You must be careful. You have lessons with Master Tenallus at the sixth hour.”

“He can’t come today. He’s ill of the stomach.” Stiles had fired him a week ago, informing the tutor that his services would no longer be needed, but was offered a hefty sum for the short notice. Stiles really didn’t go to the market as often as he said he did. The plan had been meticulously laid out; from the times his mother would be at the Imperial palace, to the hours he’d need to practice with Derek. No one, not even Scott, had a clue just how much was at stake. Everything had to go exactly according to plan, or it would all fall through. 

He had watched his mother slip back into the villa early this morning, before the cocks had crowed, her stola torn in places. Stiles knew he had to act soon. If his father knew what that pig was making his mother do every night, he’d have gutted him already. She didn’t think her son had a clue. After all, why would he? He was just a boy, never able to pay attention to one thing for too long. Especially not his mother. But Stiles had been there that night. He had heard her screams and pleas, and had stood frozen in the shadows, listening as his mother bartered for their lives with a sick and disgusting man. He didn’t understand why, what they had done to deserve this. Why they would be killed at the slightest hint of resistance, but it didn’t matter anymore. His father was the finest general Rome had ever had, and his son wouldn’t sit and stand by. It was time to be a man. 

Finishing his breakfast, he drained his goblet of wine, and pocketed the pear to give to Scott for Molly on his way out. Before he left the room, though, he stopped at his mother’s side and kissed her cheek. 

“I love you, mother,” he said solemnly. She met his gaze with a tired smile and sighed, kissing his forehead. 

“I love you too, Ascendaeus. More than you could ever know.” She ruffled his hair. “Be careful out there, dear. Don’t get to close, alright?”

“Alright! Love you!”

He threw the pear to Scott as he ran out of the courtyard to the streets of Rome, dodging oxen and food venders, prostitutes and soldiers of the guard. 

By the time he saw the familiar statue of Minerva, he was out of breath, but that was good. He needed to work on his stamina if he wanted to be able to fight. 

Derek was at the same station as before, finishing a course loaf of bread. He nodded to Stiles approvingly, and wiped his hands on his tunic, before pointing to the sledgehammer. 

“Grab that with your sword arm,” was all he said before they went to work. 

 

 

The day was long, and Stiles had to stop at the bathhouse before making his way home, covered in soot and grime from a long day of hard work. His muscles ached like they never had before, and blisters lined his palms, but he hadn’t once complained. This was nothing compared to what his mom went through for him. He would endure it a thousand times over. 

After a week, the blisters no longer bled, and Molly stopped asking about the bloodied bandages he shoved into the dirty laundry. Derek taught him why they embedded the blades they forged with steel, and never spoke more than three words at a time if he could help it. Scott covered for him with his mother always telling him he was out at the market or at the baths or trying to sneak a peak at the gladiators. 

After a month, he woke up listening to his mother’s tears, and spent the rest of the night slashing up a dummy made out of his pillow with the dagger he had forged for himself with Derek’s help. 

His hands were no longer soft. Tomorrow he would learn to fight. 

 

 

The angry red 'S' on Derek's bicep gleamed as the light from the lantern flickered over it, bouncing off the blades that hung from the rafters. Stiles wiped his face with his tunic, but he held the hammer steady and forged away at their latest sword. 

Suddenly, he stopped, and looked at Derek. 

"My skin is rough. You said you'd teach me then. It has to be soon," he said seriously, the gravity in his eyes so incongruous with his age. Again, Derek had to wonder what the boy had gone through to take away his childhood so young. He didn't have it in him to pity the child, but he could empathize.

"We finish our work, and then we'll begin."

They still had the same amount of work to do, but only had half the time if they wanted to get any training done. It was no problem though. Stiles would just work harder. 

 

 

They broke at noon for lunch, eating dried beans from the street vendor across the way. Derek eyed Stiles' arms before picking up one of the lighter blades, and handing it to him. 

"That is yours now. Treat it with care," he said, before grabbing one for his own use and gesturing for Stiles to follow. They made their way through the streets and alleys, climbing over walls and up onto the roofs, until they found a spot relatively clear of people, overlooking the streets of Rome. Derek got into fighting stance, and Stiles followed, trying to remember what he had seen the gladiators do. Trying to imagine his father, and how he'd hold his sword. 

"Attack," Derek instructed.

So he did. Time after time Derek parried his swings, calling out quick lines of instruction or criticism with each new onslaught. 

"Don't attack straight on."

"Don't leave your chest open to attack."

"Never take your eye off your opponent."

"Always be aware of your footing."

For hours they sparred on the rooftops, the unrelenting sun hot on their backs, but Derek never seemed to break a sweat. 

"Enough. We'll go again tomorrow." Stiles said nothing as he watched the man hop down over the side of the building and disappear into the crowd. He was riddled with scratches, and his arms felt like lead. As he swung himself down into the alleyway, he remembered he forgot to return the sword to Derek. 

_That's yours, now._

He smiled, tossing the sword from hand to hand. Wait until Scott saw it. 

 

 

For months, the routine continued, Stiles slipping away before the sun rose, sword slung in his belt, grabbing a piece of fruit or a sweet roll for Derek. Malamhìn would watch him go, tch-ing at whatever madness she thought he had gotten involved in now. They'd work for hours and then train even longer until the sun began to sink in the sky, and Stiles had to get home. Every day, his hands grew rougher, and his muscles larger. Derek even began to smile at him on occasion. When they had the chance, he and Scott would practice through the nights, Stiles trying to teach Scott the same things Derek taught him each day. When he slept, it was hard and deep, so that he no longer woke to the sound of his mother's tears. Every few mornings though, the bags under her eyes grew larger, and new bruises would grace her fair skin. Even Molly noticed. One night Stiles came home to Molly nursing his mother's face with a cold cloth, and muttering to her. He hid in the hall way and listened as quietly as he could.

"Aemilia, you cannae let this continue! What would the General say if he knew? Your son, you think he does nae know something is amiss?" She whispered fervently, as Aemilia winced but remained still. 

"Malamhìn, you know it is not that simple. I haven't a choice in the matter. My son's life depends on it. The General would be able to do something, but he isn't here. He hasn't been here in six years. Ascendaeus can barely recall his face. I cannot rely on him any longer. I'm using the only weapon I have, and at least it has bought us time."

"But will it be enough, lass?" 

Stiles backed away slowly, gripping his sword tighter. He wasn't ready yet. He was getting better, but he wasn't strong enough to handle _him_ yet. When he could beat Derek, he would be ready. 

It didn't matter though. His mother hadn't been able to buy them enough time. 

 

 

Derek cursed as the boy laughed. 

"My point," he said dancing out of Derek's reach. Stiles was improving much faster than Derek had anticipated. He talked a mile a minute but never let his attention falter, a good tactic for distraction, although Derek highly doubted it was intentional. It worked though, and managed to distract Derek enough that he overstepped, and Stiles landed a blow on his arm. 

"'Tis but a scratch, boy. You'll need more to put down an opponent."

"Yes, I know, but it's still my point. You can buy lunch tomorrow," he added, sticking out his tongue. Moments like those were when Derek suddenly remembered just how young Stiles truly was. How high he still had yet to climb. 

"Fair enough. Go home, Stiles." He said fondly, ruffling the kids hair with his uninjured arm. He watched the boy dance across the roof and dart over the side, and grabbed his things. He looked over the side and checked the direction Stiles headed in, before following closely behind staying out of sight on the rooftops as he did everyday until the boy got home. He had a feeling Stiles had no clue what dangers he faced. 

Stiles headed home his usual way, buying his mother a fresh honey loaf as he neared the villa. Soldiers passed, first a group of two, then a group of four heading in another direction, and another group following behind. His stomach dropped and he picked up the pace running faster. Something was wrong. 

He raced through the courtyard and hallway after hallway until he heard it. Molly's sobs coming from his mother's quarters. 

"Mother!" He screamed, running up to her room and stopping dead at what he saw. 

"No," he whispered shaking his head fervently. Molly was on the floor, cradling his mother's body in her arms, her stola soaked with crimson, still oozing out of the gash across her throat. 

"No, no, no!" A sob rent through the air, and Stiles was barely even aware it had come from him. He knees ached, he realized distantly as he crawled across the floor to his mother, reaching out to brush the hair from her face. Tears drenched his cheeks as he dropped his forehead to her chest, clutching at her robes as if that could bring her back to him. 

"Stiles," a voice said from behind him. Molly gasped, and he turned, somehow not surprised at all to see Derek there. 

"Stiles, we need to leave. Now. They'll come back for you. You, pack up a bag for the two of you," he said, gesturing to Molly. Scott appeared at his side, face ashen white.

"Ascendaeus, there's soldiers on their way," he gasped out. Stiles looked down at his mother, and felt cold numbness settle over him. He pressed his lips shakily to her forehead, and nodded. 

"Molly, we have to go. Pack food, and clothes," he instructed quietly, as he backed away from his mother's corpse.

"I know a route out of the city that won't take us past any guards," Derek said, leading him out of the room with a hand at his shoulder. All he could do was nod. 

"Ascendaeus, I'm sorry."

The boy stopped and gripped the handle of his sword tightly, responding without looking up.

"It's Stiles."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all historical information used in this fic will have been found via extensive google searching and heavy wikipedia reading. Historical accuracy is an aim, but not my main purpose, so feel free to point out any blatant errors. The politics and time period of the fic fall somewhere between late Roman Republic and Early Roman Empire. I don't really know enough to distinguish more than that. I will not be using any real historical figures. Comments and criticisms would be appreciated. Not sure if I want to continue this or not. Thoughts would help!
> 
> Also, Scott and his mom are definitely _not_ historically accurate. They are celtic slaves from Roman Britain, and they wouldn't talk with the irish brogue I have them talking with, but the accent was just too good to pass up and I can envision it perfectly, and finding colloquial terms for any language in that time period is nearly impossible. So.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> **Theodericus** \- Leader of the People, latinization of "Theoderic," a common Germanic name. Hint hint.  
>  **Ascendaeus** \- Play on latin word "ascendere," meaning, obviously, to ascend. Playing off of the term "Stiles," which originated from stigel, or "stig–" meaning to climb  
>  **First hour** \- First hour of sunlight, progress as such through out the day. Sixth hour would be around noon, twelfth hour would around be sunset, depending on the time of year.  
>  **Denarii** \- Roman currency  
>  **Peregrinus** \- Foreigner  
>  **Malamhìn** \- Traditional Gaelic name for "Malvina," pronounced "MAL uh veen," closest I could find to Melissa. Stiles shortens it to Molly  
>  **Scotaidh** \- Traditional Gaelic name for "Scott," literally pronounced "SCO tee." Simply means Scotsman. 


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles felt numb as he led Derek through the hallways. It wasn’t until the pillars swooped in and out of focus that he realized he had stopped breathing. His sight narrowed to tunnel vision on his floor below his feet as his chest grew tighter.

“Stiles!” His chin jerked up, only now realizing Derek was crouched in front of him.

“Stiles, breathe. Look at me! Breathe.” Derek’s hand smacked his cheek, the shock had air pooling once more in his lungs. Derek gripped his shoulders, grounding him, making him focus.

“You must be strong, just until we reach the city’s gates. Find a cloak, something warm. Dress in as many layers as you can.”

Stiles didn’t understand, it was the height of summer, but he didn’t have the frame of mind to disobey.

Scott was in his room hurriedly stuffing anything and everything he could find into a leather satchel

“Scott, pack these as well,” he said quietly, handing over scrolls of parchment from the lessons Master Tenallus had never finished. His mother used to say a warrior’s greatest weapon was his mind, and that’s why his father was such a great warrior. Derek said he must always have three moves planned in his head before making his first. The history lessons, battle strategy, such knowledge would keep his mind sharp. His mother wouldn’t want him to stop his studies.

Scott took them without question, as Stiles undressed, donning several tunics, and two togas, despite the dry heat. Molly came in, similarly dressed, taking the bag from Scott.

“Scotaidh, put on your warmest layers. Put on all the silks in Ascendaeus’ trunk. Go on, get. Aye, Ascendaeus, put on all your silk, too.” The boys moved fast, fear coloring their movements. From the balcony, shouts could be heard, along with the unison thud of soldiers’ feet approaching. Stiles refastened his belt, sword hanging heavy at his side.

Derek appeared in the doorway, a bulky bag over his shoulder. “There’s no more time. We must go.”

They moved as fast as they could, each carrying a bag over their shoulder. Keeping to the alleyways, they made their way through the city, hearing the cries of alarms, soldiers moving in packs to and from the city gates. Derek led the way, weaving them in and out of guilds and open markets, alleys and back routes. The two boys took the middle while Molly brought up the end.

Stiles was confused, his family was wealthy, important, but it seemed like the city was gearing for attacking. It wasn’t until they reached the city wall that he understood.

“—Assault on the senator. She tried to murder him!”

“It was treason they said, she was supposed to be sentenced to death.”

“The boy went mad, attacked the senator and then murdered his own mother!”

Tears welled in his eyes, and he stumbled over his own feet. Molly, behind him, ran her hand over his head, shushing him.

“Dinna listen, m’boyo. They don’ know a thing, Ascendaeus.”

He nodded, crying helplessly. They thought he was a murderer. They thought he murdered his own mother. He shook his head, gasping for breath.

“They think—my mother, she—she’s…”

The breath whooshed out of his lungs as Derek heaped him over his shoulder.

“There is not time.”

Stiles slumped, sobs escaping every couple seconds, muffled by Derek’s tunic. Scott ducked his head under Molly’s arm, wiping his own tears on the folds of her stola.

The rest of the journey through the city passed in a blur. They didn’t go through the city gates, but rather a hole that led to the surrounding fields. Derek set Stiles down a mile outside the walls, once they had made it into the outlying forests.

He hadn’t stopped crying, it was just soundless now. Barely an hour had passed since he had found his mother. Everything was numb, senseless. He walked blindly, tripping and righted by hands on his shoulder, handed a hard honey loaf by Derek. He didn’t realize it was the one he had meant for his mother until the bread got stuck in his throat.

They walked all day, sticking to the wooded areas, avoiding roads at all costs. Stiles was sweaty and exhausted, too numb to register. He felt like he could walk to the heavens if only no one stopped him. He wished no one would stop him.

Every now and then they heard horses and voices calling, and moved in the opposite direction. There was no rhyme or reason to their path, other than cover as much ground as possible. The terrain was relatively flat, would remain so until they moved further inland or north and hit the Apennines, so they could cover ground quickly.

No one spoke, though Molly occasionally chided Scott as he whispered to her. They crossed open fields as quickly as they could, as to not be spotted from riders along the road. There was no way to determine who was looking for them, or how long the chase would be, if there even _was_ a chase. There was no way to be certain, and they couldn’t risk it, so they kept moving.

It was evening, around twelfth hour when they finally stopped. Sun would set for a while, another three or four hours, but they had covered much ground already.

“We stop here,” Derek said simply.

* * *

The woman got the boys set up for sleep, clearing away the rocks and sticks and arranging their extra clothing as blankets. The night wasn’t too chilly, and they curled up together instantly anyways.

Derek nodded to the woman and leaned his back against a tree. He meant to keep watch while she slept, but the woman merely took up a position similar to his own opposite him.

“I ne’er got your name, lad,” she spoke quietly, but there was an edge to her voice. She didn’t trust him to watch her son’s back in the night.

“Theodericus. The boy calls me Derek.”

She nodded. “Your bag be filled with their gold an’ silver.” The statement was bald, no inflection, no accusation, but the mistrust was clear.

“We’ll need horses if we are to move quickly. It would be of no use to us back in Rome.” They both held each other’s gaze, neither backing down.

“Ascendaeus wears a sword. That be your doin’.”

He nodded, just barely. “He asked me to teach him, he wanted to learn to protect his mother.” The woman’s eyes dipped at that, but not before he caught the blur of water gathering.

“I am Malamhìn. Scotaidh’s mother. Aemilia’s most loyal servant. I dinna know why you helped us, but I am most grateful. M’lady sold her soul to keep her lad safe, I’ll be doin’ the same. You’re nae to harm a hair on Ascendaeus’ shorn head, or I’ll be guttin’ you meself.”

Derek stared her down before nodding minutely. “He is the son of Marcus Domitius, is he not?”

“Aye.”

“We’ll find his father. If he is not dead, perhaps he can clear his family’s name.”

“But m’lady hasn’t heard word of him in months! At last word, he was leagues away, north amongst the peregrinus. ‘Tis the journey of years, Derek.”

His name sounded funny on her odd curled tongue. “Aye, but we have little choice. Your people are too far away, no?”

“Scotaidh is my only people. There is no one left.”

He nodded. “My people are also to the north. If we cannot find Marcus Domitius, we will seek refuge there.”

They stayed silent for awhile, each contemplating the other. After a few minutes, Malamhìn broke the silence.

“I made certain they were each garbed in silk ‘fore we left. I reckoned it could gain us some coin along the way.”

Derek nodded once more. Smart.

“I’m also fairly well versed in plants an’ herbs. I can ‘elp forage us food if need be.”

The woman, Malamhìn, she was intelligent, fiercely protective. A mother bear. She would prove a valuable ally, especially since Derek had no idea how to deal with two nine-year-old boys. His only goal right now was to evade the soldiers long enough that they could make it to a town where Ascendaeus’ name wasn’t on their lips. If they travelled for three or four more days, going at a steady pace, they’d reach the mountains, or at the very least the foothills, and should be relatively safe. A fortnight, and he’d be more comfortable. If he could find them horses, it’d be much more manageable.

Both adults sat with their backs against the trees, cold and uncomfortable, the lack of fire throwing everything into chilly relief.

* * *

“Get up.”

A hand covered his mouth, and Stiles shot awake, scrambling to pull the hand away. Blind panic covered his eyes and he dragged in air when the hand pulled away.

“‘Tis me, ‘tis Derek. We need to move,” Derek whispered from above Stiles. It was still pitch black out, the embers of their fire long dark. The murmured words sounded even more intense coming off his strange tongue. “Pack quickly. Wake Scott.”

Derek moved away to wake up Molly, as Stiles shook Scott awake. They gathered their things up swiftly and quietly, though Stiles supposed there wasn’t that much to gather. His dagger was sheathed in his belt, next to his sword. He threw Scott’s bow to him, even though his friend wasn’t quite a sure shot yet. He wasn’t sure what was coming, but the last time he’d seen the look on Derek’s face was when they were leaving the city.

“Derek? Why are we moving now?” Scott asked, voicing the words Stiles couldn’t get passed his lips.

“Soldiers. Headed this way. We must move. Now.”

They moved as quickly as possible, Derek cursing the fact that he had yet to find them mounts. If he had, they wouldn’t be in this situation. Suddenly he threw an arm out, halting them in their steps.

Stiles could hear them, too. Foot soldiers headed their way. He met Derek’s eyes, and hoped the man couldn’t see the fear in his own. Their footsteps echoed in his ears, the same as they had the day his mother died, and they had come to arrest him.

“Can you climb?” Derek asked them all. “We’ll hide in the trees. We have a good chance of slipping by them.”

Their chances were good, although if the soldiers had ever been stationed north, where his people were, they wouldn’t blink an eye before burning down the forest. He said nothing of that to the rest though. The soldiers would be inexperienced. He hoped.

* * *

“The farmer said they had a peregrinus with them. He saw them pass this way after cutting through his crop.”

There were five soldiers spread out across 200 yards below them, making no efforts to be quiet. Another 20 were farther away, scattered throughout the woods. Stiles could hear their shouts cutting through the quiet. His heart was likely to punch out of his chest, and he prayed to the gods that the soldiers wouldn’t be able to hear it.

Molly and Scott watched through the branches on the opposite side of the tree, holding their breath as the men drew nearer.

Derek wound an arm around Stiles chest, pulling him back further into the foliage. Stiles bit his lip and tried to keep himself from slipping, or the branch from cracking, or the soldiers for just peaking upwards just a little bit… He squeezed his eyes shut.

“They’re leaving,” Derek breathed into his ear, barely even audible.

They stayed in the trees for another hour, before Derek gave them the all clear. Molly gave Derek a short nod. He understood. Perhaps they couldn’t quite trust one another, but for now they were all each other had to protect these boys.

They spent the rest of the night and the next day walking. They didn’t stop in a single town.

* * *

Stiles woke to the sound of hooves approaching. In a shot, he was off his feet, floundering for the sword he had hugged tight in his sleep. His balance was off, and he nearly dropped it in his haste, but it was simply Derek that rode through the trees, a gelding below him and another following by the leads.

The fear and adrenaline coursing through his blood refused to let him lower his weapon. He couldn’t register that Derek wasn’t a threat until Molly gently reached over his shoulder, lowering the sword for him. She rubbed his shoulder and shared a look with Derek before going to wake up Scott.

“Here.” Derek tossed Stiles a loaf of bread and a wineskin with watered-down wine inside. Stiles caught them by reflex, looking at the loaf with disinterest. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t anything.

His sleep had been turbulent, filled with sprays of red, hoarse grunts at midnight, his mother’s muffled cries as she limped back to their villa.

He kneeled at the foot of a tree nearby and poured out a few drops of wine to the gods. _Keep me strong, keep her safe. Tell her I love her_. He muttered the prayer under his breath, and ate the bread without tasting it. When he looked up, Derek was watching him.

* * *

They paired up, Scotaidh riding with Malamhìn, Stiles with Derek. Molly laughed when Derek had question her ability to ride astride a horse.

“Ach, lad, I could ride ‘fore I could run. Me wee feet could nae carry me fast ‘nough for me likin’. Ooh, I was a terror, I was.” Scotaidh smiled back as his mother, trying to picture it, the homeland she always spoke of, a majestic green like you couldn’t imagine. Cliffs carved right out of the sky. She spoke for hours, telling stories of her childhood, stories of her gods, the fae folk, her soothing accent pleasing to Derek’s ear.

Scott drifted off a half hour into the voyage, but Stiles sat rigid on the horse, never relaxing though the ride must’ve been painful that way. His stoicism didn’t surprise Derek at all, it saddened him though. He had hoped never to see the hardness in Stiles’ eyes crystallize into cynicism. He was too young. The fates had been merciless.

* * *

"I dinna' ken why Ascendaeus thought this was so much fun," Scott muttered, though Derek could hear every word. "Me arms canna' even bear the sword, an' what do ye keep hittin' me for?"

Derek sighed. "If you want to stop, we stop." Though the boy had been the one to ask in the first place.

"I didna' figure it would hurt so much."

Malamhìn laughed as she entered the clearing they had claimed for the night, arms laden with wild herbs and mushroom, even a few olives and a vine of grapes. "Scotaidh, we wouldn't' call soldiers brave if t'were an easy trade."

Night had fallen on their fourth day of travel, and though it was rough on them all, Scott had already succumbed to boredom. The terror of the first few nights had worn off for the small boy, especially with Ascendaeus' continuing silence.

The night before, Molly had led him to a stream to wash him of his mother's blood, and despite the tears trailing down his cheeks, the boy stayed mute, and had been since they left the city gates. They were all concerned.

As Molly set to stoking a small fire before the sun set, Scott slumping tiredly beside her, Derek moved to sit near Ascendaeus.

"It would be good practice for you to teach him, you know," Derek said gruffly. The boy gave no response, nor any indication he had heard Derek's words. But Derek could remember the pain of loss clearly. Subconsciously, he rubbed the 'S' branded onto his bicep. It wasn't a pain that faded with time. You simply grew around it. The boy would grow in his time.

He passed a few olives to Stiles, who silently accepted them. At least he was eating now.

* * *

The days passed and they developed a pattern. When they neared _mansiones_ , the rest stops along the roads for travellers, Molly would wait in the forest away from the road with the boys as Derek ventured in, to get them supplies, food and the like.

What Derek didn’t share was the wanted posters hanging on the doors, with a crude picture of Ascendaeus and a reward posted by a senator Marcus Gaius Gerardas Argentum. He had been hoping that they wouldn’t be pursued this far from Rome, but that had been before he knew it was Argentum on their trail. They’d need to get the Apennines, quickly. They could find shelter in the mountains.

He took what he could from the _mansio_ , recalling they hadn’t grabbed enough wineskins for the difficult travel, and that they hadn’t had a meal of meat in the four days they had been travelling. He bartered for some jerky, enough to tide them over until he could craft a bow and hunt for them.

* * *

“Wha’s tha’?” Scott asked, leaning over Derek’s shoulder as he whittled down a pliable,but strong yew branch into the shaft for his bow.

“‘Tis a bow.”

“Like for arrows? To shoot things?”

“For hunting.”

Derek continued whittling away the rough bark of the yew branch, not looking up, but he noticed Ascendaeus’ interest. “I thought I might hunt for us some meat. It seems we will be travelling for some time.”

Added to the need for meat for the young boys, the farther they got from the city, the greater the chance of them crossing wolves or bears. Bandits. They needed to be prepared to defend themselves.

“Could ye teach us? Me and Ascendaeus? We willna be a bother, promise!”

“Do not call me that name, Scott. I am Stiles, now.”

Derek nodded, as Scott’s eyes widened. Stiles had yet to speak since they left the city walls. “I can teach you to hunt,” he said, meeting Stiles’ gaze. “We will start with making your bows.”

* * *

Stiles watched the set of Derek’s shoulders as he aimed his bow, he counted the in and out Derek’s breath, analyzed the pull of his muscles, committed it all to memory. He would be an amazing archer. He’d be a better warrior, a soldier. He’d protect Scott and Molly.

His first arrow missed it’s mark, but the second landed inside the bullseye derek had carved into the tree.

He’d avenge his mother.

“Now ye loop the string through that hole, an’ then-No Scotaidh! Dinna touch it, laddie, it’ll cut your fingers off!” The boys, were squatted around Molly as she laid a rabbit trap. “We’ll check it in th’ morn, afore we head on. Mayhaps we’ll be havin’ rabbit t’ break our fast.”

Derek watched them come back from where they laid their traps. They would reach the foothills tomorrow, but he was afraid they had more pressing concerns.

“We’ll need to travel swiftly tomorrow. We’ll ride the horses as far as we can. These lands are laden with bandits.” The smiles slid off Molly and Scott’s faces. Stiles’ hand went to his sword.

“Maybe we should train,” Stiles suggested quietly.

Derek watched his face for a second before nodding. “Take your stance, then.”

* * *

Before the foothills, the country spread out in a vast plateau. The forest began to thin, though it would still provide enough coverage for an ambush. They could try to cut through farmers’ fields, but the chance of being seen was too risky for them to be comfortable. The best idea would just be to ride fast and hard through the wooded areas, and hope the gods would be kind.

The sixth hour was upon them, and so far the woods had remained quiet.

“Do ye think, mayhaps it might be time to rest? Just for a wee bit, for the lads?” Molly asked quietly. Scott looked hopeful, but Stiles remained stiff in his saddle.

“We should travel on, another hour or so. Then maybe we could stop.” The forest was too quiet here, he couldn’t hear the chirp of birds or the call of the beetle. It made him nervous. He’d rather clear the area sooner than later.

Suddenly, the horse bucked beneath him and Stiles, throwing them to the ground. Derek caught sight of an arrow lodged in the horse’s flank, and swore.

“Bandits, Molly! Ride!”

She spurred the horse into a gallop, but men were already coming out of the trees, cutting them off.

“Stiles, your sword! Take up your stance!” Derek sprang into action, taking on two of the bandits, at once, cleaning slicing through one’s gut. He squared off with the other, trying to keep his focus divided between the bandit in front of him, and Stiles and the others.

The bandits were no match for him, but they could easily get the upper hand against Stiles, and especially Scott.

He stabbed his blade through the mans chest, with barely even a nick on him, and scanned the clearing. His heart pounded in his ears, but he remained calm. This was in his blood. He was a warrior like his people. _Lupus de Nocte._

Molly had urged Scott up a tree, where he was safer, and in a better position to pick off men with his bow. Good.

Molly had a dagger in hand, and was much swifter than he would have given her credit for, but still was no match for the three men against her. Derek took down two, and started in on the third, before he heard Stiles cry out.

* * *

Stiles had never felt pain like he did now, after the bandit had landed a blow on his side. It bloomed red from below his ribs. He had already taken down one man with a quick jab, but the second had come on him from behind.

He parried another swing, but the pain made it much more difficult to raise his arm. The sword was growing heavy, even with all his practice. He stumbled back as the man approached again, cornering him against a tree.

“Stiles, drop and roll!” He obeyed instantly, somersaulting out of the way, as the bandit swung around to face Derek.

Molly raced over to him, and Stiles finally realized that they were down to the last man.

“My side. He got me in the side,” Stiles muttered breathlessly. He could hear swords clanging in the background, but he had no fear. Derek would win.

Overcome by nausea, he leaned over and puked. “I’m sorry. I tried to fight, I’m sorry.”

Molly tsked and wiped his brow. “Hush laddie, ye did just fine, now. I’m gonna fix ye right up, don’ ye even blink an eye, all right? Scotaidh, I need ye to fetch me satchel. Hurry up now, boyo. ‘Tisn’t the time for lollygagging. Derek, are you all right? Good. Get me some water. Now!”

Stiles could barely focus on Molly’s face above him, the pain was so overwhelming. Everything looked red, and then gray.

“I’ll do better. I’ll be better,” he said, his hand slipping off Molly’s arm.

Then everything was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Theodericus** \- Leader of the People, latinization of "Theoderic," a common Germanic name. Hint hint.  
>  **Ascendaeus** \- Play on latin word "ascendere," meaning, obviously, to ascend. Playing off of the term "Stiles," which originated from stigel, or "stig–" meaning to climb  
>  **First hour** \- First hour of sunlight, progress as such through out the day. Sixth hour would be around noon, twelfth hour would around be sunset, depending on the time of year.  
>  **Denarii** \- Roman currency  
>  **Peregrinus** \- Foreigner  
>  **Malamhìn** \- Traditional Gaelic name for "Malvina," pronounced "MAL uh veen," closest I could find to Melissa. Stiles shortens it to Molly  
>  **Scotaidh** \- Traditional Gaelic name for "Scott," literally pronounced "SCO tee." Simply means Scotsman.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all historical information used in this fic will have been found via extensive google searching and heavy wikipedia reading. Historical accuracy is an aim, but not my main purpose, so feel free to point out any blatant errors. The politics and time period of the fic fall somewhere between late Roman Republic and Early Roman Empire. I don't really know enough to distinguish more than that. I will not be using any real historical figures. Comments and criticisms would be appreciated. Not sure if I want to continue this or not. Thoughts would help!
> 
> Also, Scott and his mom are definitely _not_ historically accurate. They are celtic slaves from Roman Britain, and they wouldn't talk with the irish brogue I have them talking with, but the accent was just too good to pass up and I can envision it perfectly, and finding colloquial terms for any language in that time period is nearly impossible. So.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> **Theodericus** \- Leader of the People, latinization of "Theoderic," a common Germanic name. Hint hint.  
>  **Ascendaeus** \- Play on latin word "ascendere," meaning, obviously, to ascend. Playing off of the term "Stiles," which originated from stigel, or "stig–" meaning to climb  
>  **First hour** \- First hour of sunlight, progress as such through out the day. Sixth hour would be around noon, twelfth hour would around be sunset, depending on the time of year.  
>  **Denarii** \- Roman currency  
>  **Peregrinus** \- Foreigner  
>  **Malamhìn** \- Traditional Gaelic name for "Malvina," pronounced "MAL uh veen," closest I could find to Melissa. Stiles shortens it to Molly  
>  **Scotaidh** \- Traditional Gaelic name for "Scott," literally pronounced "SCO tee." Simply means Scotsman.


End file.
